The lonely, crumbly hamantaschen is as delicious as the fresh and whole one. Courtesy of Rashi Pachino
Purim’s here again
The costumes are all in,
The stores display shelf after shelf
Of soft, sweet hamantaschen.
Every family returns home
With a big box or two,
The pastries are quickly consumed
Before Purim is through.
But some are left behind you see
All crumbly and forlorn,
And still remain there quite untouched
Come Shushan Purim morn.
What’s that you say? You are confused?
Oh that won’t get you far…
We’re the crumbly, broken hamantaschen
Yeah, you know who we are!
Year after year we hope and pray
To be eaten we wait,
But when Purim ends we’re still left
All crumbly on the plate.
Those rare times this is not the case
It’s proven for a fact,
A fight breaks out to claim the ones
That are whole and intact.
Explain, if you please, how this works
We taste the same you know,
Perfect, broken, we all come from
The very same batch of dough.
This Purim grab the crumbly ones
Taste them, go on, try!
From a tasty, broken hamantash
We guarantee you won’t die.
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